


spend my days in longing

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the following tumblr prompt: "I'd like [an explicit story about] one night at the office, where Lane is some kind of sex god...The next day he's ashamed and he regrets it, but Joan doesn't, so she wants to do it again...and [ends up] wooing him..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	spend my days in longing

_Don’t use the word recall. It’s not a recall!_

A late-breaking emergency with Fillmore Auto Parts had kept Joan in the office until eleven, and finally – _finally_ – after two days of phone calls and putting together project strategy with Pete and Ted, who were in California for the week, she felt like they were going to be able to accomplish something. Creative had new drafts of all written deliverables, and Stan had been sent packing to New Jersey to take photographs of the faulty product, so the non-recall campaign could start next week as planned.

She was still too wound up to go home, so she slipped out of her suit jacket, poured herself a drink, and walked downstairs to the first floor in her stocking feet, admiring the way the city lights played against the walls of the dim office. It was nice to walk around this level without all the usual hustle and bustle. Honestly, it made her feel a little nostalgic.

As did something else. Down the hall, there was a lamp on in Lane’s office, and so when she walked a little closer and saw him standing in the middle of the server room, caught up in examining the machine, she couldn’t help but smile.

“Bad habit,” was all she said as she opened the glass door.

At the noise, he turned, seeming embarrassed.

“Oh. Well, I really wasn’t—I—didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Joan smiled. Of course he was working late.

“Technically, we’re not supposed to be in here.”

The teasing remark made him laugh.  “You’ve found me out.”

She shook her head, walking closer to him so they were standing side by side, staring up at the whirring equipment.

“Well, I won’t tell Harry Crane if you won’t.”

Lane snorted out an amused noise. Like either of them cared about what Harry Crane thought.

“What are you drinking?” he asked after a moment.

She extended the glass in his direction. “Gin. Want a sip?”

“No.” He held up a hand. “Had a couple of whiskeys.”

Joan looked over, studying him more carefully this time. He did look relaxed: no jacket or tie, white shirtsleeves rolled up, and vest unbuttoned.

“Sounds exciting.”

When he turned to look at her, there was a suspicious glint in his eye that told her he’d guessed what she must be thinking. Christmas party, last year. It was right after he’d gotten divorced. The company had wanted to celebrate the new merger; champagne had flowed, the kids had been wild, and by night’s end, she and Lane had ended up necking in his office in his desk chair, like a couple of charged-up teenagers.

The next day, they’d exchanged a brief apology – embarrassed murmurs of _sorry_ and _wouldn’t want to risk it_ and _it’s all right; we weren’t thinking_ – and so the subject had been closed _._ While Joan wasn’t unhappy to have chosen their friendship over other benefits, she still thought about that from time to time. How eager he’d been, how much fun they’d had together.

“Do you ever wonder about the computer?” Lane asked suddenly. When she glanced over at him, he was staring up at where the server met the ceiling. “The details of how it works?”

“Well, I talk to Lisa,” she said slowly, crossing the room to put her glass on top of the single desk. Here, a thin paper readout was steadily printing from one part of the machine. “I like learning about it when I can. ”

Lane grinned at her, apparently liking this idea. "And what does Lisa tell you?”

“Well,” Joan walked back over to where he was standing, gesturing toward the server directly in front of him, “supposedly, if you have a business problem that requires an executive decision, first, you define it, and assign a mathematical equation to each aspect of the problem. And the machine composites all the equations for you through the on-screen model.” 

She pointed toward the graphical display on the far left hand side of the glass wall that used to separate the lounge from the lobby, which was now taken up with floor to ceiling equipment.

“Bit like calculus.” Lane’s voice was faint, like he wasn’t quite talking to her. “Did you ever take it—in school?”

“Yes,” Joan told him, “in college.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“All the lower math classes were full, so the registrar stuck me into a class based on my test scores. I think they were hoping I’d fail.” She sighed, letting herself feel pleased. “I didn’t.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Lane turned toward her, and his voice was a little rushed. “Did she, erm, tell you anything else?”

He couldn’t actually be this ignorant about a room full of equipment that sat twenty feet from his office. The way his pupils were dark behind his glasses made her think it had a specific type of appeal.

Joan found that fascinating. Did he honestly get wound up talking about this stuff? She suddenly became very conscious of the way he was watching her—the way he stood so close to her.

Her cheeks got warm.

“It examines the effects of anomalies on demand, when you touch the screen. With the light pen.”

It felt like they were starting a game. The intent way his eyes were fixed on her body sent a shiver through her stomach.

He made a noise of assent, moving a little closer, and letting one of his hands trail slightly up her skirt, stopping near the middle of her inner thigh. Joan couldn’t help but arch into the touch.

She let out a breath through her nose, eyes fluttering closed as his fingertips traced slightly upward—not enough to please her, but more than enough to get her started.

His left hand rested at her waist, fingers skimming side-to-side over the clothed swell of her hip. His right hand was now fully pressed against her left thigh, and she rocked forward, needing more.

“And?” Lane prompted, like he already knew the answer.

“The—effects of constraints,” she breathed out.

Minutes later, she was pressed against the side of the furthest floor-to-ceiling server, her dress hiked up around her waist, and Lane’s trousers and suspenders pushed down to his knees. He was buried deep inside her—hot, tense, needy.

“You feel so good,” he whispered as he thrust up, once, his breath hitching in the back of his throat. Joan felt herself clench around him, tight.

“Yeah,” she whispered back, meaning it as encouragement—tell me again, keep talking—but the word came out strained, as if she were begging him to move.

He hummed out a groan. She licked her lips, tried again.

“So do you.”

Lane thrust up into her again, with a gasp, and she sucked in a shallow breath. She wrapped her legs a little tighter around his waist, needing him to make her lose control.

“Christ,” he rasped, eyes squeezed closed—she felt his thighs quiver between hers—and suddenly the pace became faster, less methodical. He pressed her against the machine more roughly, letting out little whimpers every time he buried himself to the hilt, getting louder and louder with every thrust and making every inch of her skin sing with sensation as they moved together. It was incredible. He was making her crazy. She couldn’t catch her breath.

“ _Oh_.” She tipped her head back against the unyielding surface of the computer behind her as sensation built inside her. “Lane _—_ ”

His forehead was pressed between her shoulder and the curve of her neck. She wanted him to look up so she could kiss him, but before she could communicate this, he got a hand between them, just enough to press the tips of his fingers down against her clit, insistent.

Shit. Joan could feel the telltale shudders starting. Her left hand flew out toward the wall for added support; palm stinging as it struck the glass. Lane adjusted the angle of his thrusts and— _yes_ —there—

 _Come for me,_ he whispered, his hand now grabbing for purchase at her hip, and he accidentally nipped her neck with his teeth as he mouthed at her jaw—

She let out a high-pitched yelp, and for at least a minute all she could do was cling to him as her body clenched and shook and their combined heavy breathing echoed around the humid room.

With a grunt, Lane pulled away, lowering her down so her feet could touch the floor. Her knees felt shaky and her limbs were so heavy she could barely hold herself upright. She was still twitching from the aftershocks, and slid down to the ground with her back pressed against the warm steel of the thrumming computer.

Lane seemed dazed, stepping out of his trousers, underpants, and shoes, and pushing them aside with one foot, his dark blue eyes now fixated on her messy skirt.

“Bloody hot in here,” he muttered first.

He was slightly out of breath as he got to his knees in front of her. It took Joan a minute to realize that he’d spoken to her. Even in the darkness, sitting with one hand propped behind her, she could see how excited he was.

“You didn’t—” she began, reaching for him, but he put a hand on her wrist.

“Not—not yet.”

“Me again?” she asked, raising an eyebrow because it surprised her. He clearly needed to—why wouldn’t he let her—

“Want to see you.” He traced a finger between her collarbone and the fabric of her dress, and she leaned forward, allowing him to get the zipper started.

Well, that was succinct.

“I like it when you talk.” She gave him a little wink as she leaned back, shrugging out of the sleeves and bodice of her dress, and deciding to extend an olive branch to find out what else he wanted. He seemed like he was in a creative mood. “All those dirty words.”

The humming noise Lane made as he moved forward on his knees said her instincts were correct. He kissed her deeply before pulling away, tracing his fingers against the fabric of her brassiere, just under the heavy curve of her left breast.

She shivered.

“Which ones did you like?” he asked, and bent to suckle her through the fabric, hard.

“I—” her mind went temporarily blank— “god, your mouth—”

Lane pulled away with a little snicker, his voice turning prim. “Those words aren’t very naughty.”

“Altogether, they are,” she huffed, and took the opportunity to stroke him a little in return. He twitched at the contact, letting her touch him for a minute before moving forward on his knees again, urging her backwards onto the floor. “Unless you know some better ones.”

His mouth quirked up into a grin.

“Tits,” he said first, with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Joan burst out laughing—which was probably not the response he wanted—but he still seemed to enjoy making her laugh, and so they just made out for a couple of minutes, giggly and delirious, before he moved down her body, bent his head to her other breast, and gave it his full attention. Soon, she wasn’t laughing any more; he took off her bra completely, and then started pushing her unzipped dress past her hips so he could start kissing his way down her stomach. She kicked it and her underwear away from her ankles once he got them down far enough, and once she was naked under his gaze, that seemed to spark even more enthusiasm. His hands glided over her breasts and her hips and up her thighs, not touching her in earnest yet, just making her ache—she needed another orgasm, she needed him now.

When he brushed a hand down past her stomach, stroking through her short, close-trimmed curls and then between her legs, where she was soaking wet, she saw him swallow. Like he was having trouble restraining himself.

“ _Mons veneris_ ,” he murmured, and as he caressed her, as he stared at her, his expression went a little dopey around the eyes.

Joan’s first instinct was to tease him about knowing the Latin name for female parts, and getting sex-stupid over it, but the way he kept touching her was making that difficult. She went a blunter route, instead.

“Got a little fixation?”

Her mouth quirked up around the corners.

“It’s sexy,” he rasped, not seeming to realize how carefully she was watching his movements; cataloging how fast he was breathing and how intently he was looking at her. “That part of you. All woman.”

Lane bent down, and pressed a kiss just above her clitoris, inhaling slightly after he did it, like he just loved everything about this. Joan let out a shaky breath, her hands flying to press against the top of his shoulders.

“So what do you call it?” she asked, her breath speeding up in anticipation as he crooked two fingers inside her.

_Would he go that far? Would he say it?_

“Your cunt.”

Lane’s voice was a rough whisper, and Joan felt a sharp pulse beat between her legs at the word. Heat blossomed over her face and chest—and she knew he’d felt how slick she’d just gotten, because he removed his hand, and jerked his eyes up to glimpse her surprised expression, breathing a little harder, almost panting.

“Let me taste it.”

A sharp breath escaped her as he slowly slipped those same two fingers into his mouth, sucked them clean, and then removed his hand, his blown-wide pupils watching her the entire time.

“Jesus,” she gasped, a shiver tripping down her spine as he bent down and fastened his mouth to her clit, easy at first, then with more and more urgency. “Lane!”

He groaned against her after she spoke, wet fingers tightening around the back of her upper thighs, and Joan would have laughed at how desperate he sounded if she wasn’t starting to feel so breathless. It was really getting her hot. Her hands threaded through the sides of his hair.

“Get me off,” she told him, and her voice shook.

Ten minutes later she was writhing against him, shaking, frantic. He’d work her up, get her close to the edge, and then pull away, tracing over her with one fingertip until she was almost incoherent with desire.

“ _Shit_ ,” she hissed aloud, as his hand replaced his mouth for the third time, and he brushed a finger over her with a feather light touch. Her thighs shook uncontrollably. “Lane, please, I—”

When he used his mouth again, tongue moving back and forth across her clit, Joan cried out, fisting her hands in his hair the way he liked, just a little rough. She needed more—she felt like she couldn’t breathe—

Her hips ground against his face, and she felt sensation still building in her belly, tight tight tight like a spring coiling up, so good, so good, _oh god don’t stop—_

Lane kept making a keening noise low in his throat the more she moved, his fingers digging into her hips, mouth hot against her—

“Want to scream,” she gasped, and then she did, her mouth wide open—and then she did it again, louder, wordless— _I—I’m—_

_“Oh!”_

**

When Joan arrived at the office the next morning, she found the server room full of people: a repairman on a ladder, plus Harry Crane and Jim Cutler, who were both in suits and hard hats, and last but not least—Lisa the software specialist, wearing her usual colorful dress. Yellow today.

Joan’s mood dipped slightly, wondering if this was related to last night, but she was still cheerful as she ducked into the glass room.

“I didn’t realize we had scheduled repairs?”

Lisa waved good morning, her blonde bangs falling slightly into her face. “One of the D/C fans on a unit stopped working last night. Could have been worse. Nothing overheated.”

“How fortunate,” Joan said, carefully not reacting to the word _overheated,_ and purposefully keeping her gaze fixed on the computer, not daring to look too far down at the floor. She’d flipped the tables on Lane so fast, the third time—gone down on him and got him babbling until he said all the dirty words he knew and then some, begging her to make him come.

She cleared her throat quietly to suppress her smirk.

Harry let out a scoff. “This is the second one that’s broken on a unit this year _._ Why are we having hardware repairs this early in the process?”

“Machines break,” Lisa sounded offended, although Harry was barely listening to her. “That’s why they make parts.”

“Crane, it’s being handled,” Cutler said with a sigh, gesturing toward Lisa with an expansive hand, like this was a point he’d already had to make more than once. “And this lovely young woman tells me no data has been lost. We won’t even have to alert the clients.”

Joan met Lisa’s knowing gaze, and suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. He thought he was so charming. Maybe there were still pheremones in the air.

Harry dabbed at his misty forehead with his jacket sleeve.

“Jesus. It’s a million degrees in here.”

“They had to turn off the climate control to repair the machine,” Lisa gave him a prompting look. “Dust.”

“Well,” Joan adjusted her satchel on her shoulder, deciding this was enough information for now. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ll see you all at the eleven o’clock.”

As the glass door swung closed in her wake, she couldn’t help but notice that Lane’s door was closed—at eight thirty in the morning, which was unprecedented—and that Meredith was sitting at her desk just outside, working with a fresh cup of coffee by her right hand.

“Good morning, Meredith,” Joan walked over, gesturing once to get the girl’s attention. “Is he in?”

“Yes, he is. I can buzz you—”

Joan was already walking past the secretary’s desk. She rapped her knuckles twice against the wood, and turned the handle.

Lane swiveled around in his chair to face the door. “Oh. Erm. Come in.”

He looked surprised to see her down here so early, and a little anxious. Joan wasn’t sure if that was due to the lack of privacy or his general mood, and as she took a few steps forward into the room, she made a mental note to ask how he was feeling. Maybe he was tired.

“May I get you anything?” Meredith was now standing framed in the doorway, beaming at them both.

Joan shook her head. “No, we’ll only be a few minutes.”

The secretary nodded, her smile still bright, and shut the door behind her.

**

“Oh, my god!” Kate sounded as shocked as Joan had felt last night, her voice echoing loud in the small receiver as Joan relayed the story to her over the phone, trying to massage a building headache from her temples with one hand. “Joanie, that is—something else.”

There was a sound like a chair being dragged across linoleum. “I’m sitting down. Jesus. Was it your first time together?”

“It was.” Joan brushed a fingertip around the bare skin at her collar, remembering the tiniest little details: her back pressed against cold tile, his tongue dragging deliciously against hot skin, the way he’d whispered encouragement under his breath as he’d pinned her to the wall. “I haven’t had a night like that in years.”

“God, it’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?” Kate’s voice shone with conviction. “Dennis was the same way when we met. Everything gets pent-up, you know?”

“Believe me,” Joan said dryly. “I’m aware.”

“Was he better than your sailor? The one who was in Japan?”

Joan cleared her throat, not wanting to besmirch Roger’s reputation, even in private. She kept her tone airy. “I’m not going to answer that.”

Kate practically cackled with glee. “He _was._ God, that’s delicious. When are you doing it again?”

“I don’t know,” Joan put a palm to her forehead. “It happened very quickly. One minute, we were talking shop, and the next—”

“He had you wrapped around his little finger?”

“Katie!” Joan was laughing too much to pull off a scolding tone.

“Oh, whatever. Kids are at school.” Kate made a dismissive noise. “And don’t act like you’re calling from the middle of the steno pool, Ms. Full Partner. I could use every dirty word I know right now, and nobody’d say boo to you.”

“Well, he panicked this morning,” Joan twisted the telephone cord around her index finger as she spoke, remembering his strict posture, and the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know what to say to him now.”

_“We shouldn’t have—acted on—those—impulses.”_

_She’d almost laughed. “Really?”_

_His jaw tensed after she said this. “No, don’t—pretend it doesn’t matter, because it does. We broke a piece of very expensive equipment—”_

_“It could have been broken before we even touched it—”_

_“You don’t know that!” He’d winced, shook his head, and then lowered his voice. “We can’t—do that again.”_

_“Why? Do you regret it?”_

_He’d turned very red, hiding his face with one hand before grumbling out a response. “Well, no, but it—we’ve—got to be—professional.”_

_When he’d finally looked at her, stress written all over his pinched face, she’d lifted two hands in a sort of shrug, so stunned she couldn’t even yell at him._

_“Honestly? I thought you’d be happy.”_

_He seemed hurt by this remark, so she’d bitten off the rest of her retort, letting out a long breath._

_“I’m going upstairs.”_

“If he just took a day or two to get out all the nerves, I think he’d be fine,” was all she said. “He overanalyzes things.”

Kate let out a snort. “Please. You just want to get yours.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Joan demanded.

A sigh crackled down the other end of the line, but when she spoke, Kate’s advice was succinct. “Then let him see you naked again. He’ll come around.”

**

She waited until a few days later, around six o’clock, when most people were gone or on their way out. Meredith was not at her desk when Joan approached Lane’s open door, which was for the best.

Joan’s heart was pounding in her chest as she rapped twice on the frame to get his attention. He was standing next to the window again; he always did that when there was something on his mind.

“Got a few minutes?” she asked.

He nodded, gesturing for her to shut the door. Joan did so, and silently turned the bolt before walking toward his desk. She didn’t sit down, though.

“You can take off your coat,” he said first, gruffly, as if he’d noticed her self-consciousness, and attributed it to hesitation. “We can—sit down.”

“Okay.” Joan deftly released the buttons, and untied her sash, straightening the collar so that the garment better framed her figure. All she was wearing underneath was a lacy blue brassiere—non-optional if she wanted to walk around the office like this for more than two minutes.

Lane was too busy pacing to notice what had happened. “I’m sorry if I—was short with you before, but I—”

He glanced over, and froze in his tracks, practically swaying to a halt. The end of his sentence trailed off into a gibberish sound.

Standing there exposed to his gaze, Joan couldn’t help grinning. His entire face was flushed, and his blue eyes were stunned wide behind his glasses. For half a second, he looked like a kid who just got turned loose inside a candy store.

She put her hands in her coat pockets, debating whether or not to shed the entire thing, and deciding to leave it on for now. Her gaze focused on the expanse of blue sky outside their window—onto the flash and wink of tall buildings directly across the street. Oops.

“I hope your windows are tinted,” she said with a smirk, gesturing toward the glass with one lift of her chin.

“Wh—” Lane sputtered, then whirled around, lunging for the cord so he could shutter the middle part of the blinds. After a second of fumbling, they snapped closed with a torqued-plastic noise. She couldn’t help wondering, idly, if anyone across the street had seen what just happened.

When he turned to face her, she could see just how affected he was by this little show. He was red all over, and the outline of his hard cock was visible through his bespoke trousers, and he kept fidgeting. His hands touched the windowsill behind him as if he was going to lean back against them, but then he crossed his arms over his chest, and then uncrossed them.

She knew what he was trying not to do.

He had to clear his throat to speak. “Why would you—?”

Joan let out a huffing laugh. “Call it an immodest proposal.”

She made a show of straightening her necklace, walking a few steps toward him, and stopping just short of arm’s reach, noticing the way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the way his cock strained against his zipper. She couldn’t help glancing at it; she just wanted to touch him again.

“Don’t,” he whined before she could move, his breath coming faster.

She raised a surprised eyebrow, glancing up at his face. “You don’t want to?”

He couldn’t even look at her, just swallowed, closing his eyes. “It _changes_ things.”

Well, that wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but it didn’t exactly dispel her theory, either. It was visibly costing Lane effort not to act on his urges; she could see that for herself. Was it more than just nerves? Was he actually scared?

“What if that’s the point?” she asked gently, reaching out to touch his elbow.

The second her palm grazed the side of his jacket, he shivered, and turned his face toward the windowsill, although his eyes were still closed.

“I-I can’t—concentrate when you—”

She let out a sigh, and removed her hand from his arm, buttoning the two middle buttons of her coat to hide the most distracting parts of her body from his gaze. Rationally, she knew it wasn’t a flat-out rejection—the tension in his body and the tremor in his voice was enough to convince her of that—but it wasn’t fun, either. Making herself so vulnerable and then having him tell her no.

Joan picked up a folded copy of the _Journal_ that was lying next to his mail tray, and sat down in the small chair across from his desk, flipping open the paper, crossing her right leg over the other, and leaning against the back of the chair to read the front-page headlines. Well. The S&P was up today, so that was something.

After a moment, she noticed Lane was staring at her again, although he didn’t budge from his place at the window.

She frowned, miming that she could open the paper fully, if it was necessary. “Any better?”

He shook his head, swallowing again.

“Erm. Worse. You’d—you should—go.”

Interesting. She had to fight to keep the smirk from her face, but calmly refolded the paper, placed it back onto his desk, and stood up, buttoning her coat the rest of the way up and fixing her collar before tying the sash snugly around her waist.

“Okay,” she said again, letting out another sigh, but not able to keep the disappointed note from her voice. “See you later.”

**

Later that night, they were all watching TV in the living room; Joan on the sofa with a drink at her left hand, Kevin asleep in her lap, and her mother sitting in the nearby easy chair, filing her nails, with her slippered feet propped up on the coffee table.

“Joanie,” her mother finally snapped, in the middle of a commercial for Life cereal. “You’re sulking. Spit it out.”

“I’m not sulking,” Joan took another sip of her drink. “I’m tired. That’s all.”

Her mother wasn’t convinced. “Right. The other day, you had a hickey on your neck the size of a quarter. I can always tell when you’re having boy troubles, you know.”

“Mom, no one is calling them _boy troubles_ ,” Joan said disdainfully, not bothering to deny the accusation. “I don’t need your input.”

To her right, Kevin shifted in his sleep, burrowing into the space between her right leg and the back of the sofa. Joan ran a hand through his silky blond hair, sighing over how fine and thick the soft locks were. They’d need to get it cut soon.

“You know, men like to feel that they’re special—”

Joan leveled her mother with as good a glare as she could manage, given her awkward position. “I do not need your advice right now.”

“Suit yourself,” the older woman said airily. She reached for the remote, and turned up the volume on the television. “I’m just trying to help.”

**

At the next traffic meeting, Dawn walked them all through accounts and billings without much fuss; the only notable part of the meeting was that Lane left early, excusing himself for what he termed _an_ _errand._

When the meeting was over – Lou had already nabbed Dawn for some dictation work – Stan was the first person to break the silence.

“Uh, Lane knows he forgot our expense reports, right?”

“What?” Joan shut her folio with a frown.

“He was supposed to collect them,” Peggy motioned toward Mathis, who passed several papers to her. There was another small stack in front of Ken and Harry’s seats, so Peggy leaned over, combined the piles, and then looked at Joan in an expectant way. “Should we give them to Meredith?”

Joan honestly wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. Meredith’s work had improved a lot over the past few months, from what Lane had told her, but he was still particular about expenses. He never used to let Clara see them, and that was after the girl had worked for him for something like six or eight months.

“Just put them here,” she said. “I’ll take them.”

She didn’t stop to place them on his desk before going upstairs. Instead, she took the papers all the way back up to her office, deciding it might be just as helpful to look through them herself. It wasn’t much work, and since she was ahead on several projects, she had some extra time. Lane had always hated marking up the reports when they worked together.

Joan could tell she had been away from the finance side of things for too long, because she actually enjoyed the monotony of going through the reports. It was like a little vacation from her own work—easy, mindless—writing impatient question marks next to Harry’s illegible scrawl and resisting the temptation to make pointed notes in the margins of creative’s papers. Ed had written out all his expenses in iambic pentameter this month. She wondered how he’d presented last month’s. Maybe Lane got a kick out of the joke.

(He wouldn’t. He always wanted things done by the book.)

The next day, she was looking over her calendar when there was a tap on the door, followed by Lane sticking his head into her office.

“Sorry. Erm. Peggy mentioned you—had the expense reports?”

Joan gestured toward the stack that was now in her outbox. “I do, although I had some time, yesterday. They’re already marked.”

His expression, as he crossed the room to take the papers from her, was baffled. “You needn’t have done that.”

She shrugged, watching as he thumbed through the pages, seeming to find everything in order. “Well, you hate doing it. I didn’t mind.”

“Oh,” Lane said after a slight pause, still looking very anxious, as if he might bolt for the door any second now. “Erm. Thank you.”

“Out of curiosity,” she began before he could leave, watching his expression become slightly more guarded, “what format did Ed write this in, last month?”

Lane blinked at her. “Erm. English, I suppose.” He thought for a second, and his posture relaxed a little. “Well, to be honest, it was more along the lines of some obscure literature dialect. Very time-consuming. I’ll need to have a word with him.”

Joan couldn’t suppress an amused snort. “This one’s in iambic pentameter.”

“Is it?” He looked horrified, then grimaced, as if he felt guilty. “Sorry.”

“It was funny,” she offered, still smiling. “But don’t tell him that.”

One corner of his mouth quirked up. Joan decided to take that as a good sign.

**

On Monday afternoon, there was commotion and conversation in the large sitting area outside Joan’s office. She opened the door and stepped outside to see a small group of four secretaries and a couple of the junior men milling around the coffee table, holding small plates of cake or cups of punch. Across the room, the punchbowl was sitting on the sideboard that bordered Cutler’s office. The table was decorated with a few streamers, and topped with a small chocolate cake and some plastic utensils, along with the faded yellow paper plates Joan recognized from most of the company birthday celebrations.

Clara was standing near her desk in a blue paisley dress with bell sleeves, an empty paper cup in hand, so Joan went to get her attention first.

“I thought Caroline usually has this party downstairs.”

“Well,” Clara waved one hand through the air in a dismissive way, one gauzy blue sleeve floating through the air as she spoke, “there’s only four people with August birthdays, and only three who could come to the party, so we couldn’t really take up the whole conference room.”

“Four,” Joan repeated, raising an eyebrow. That didn’t sound right.

Clara counted them off on her fingers. “Ken,  Meredith, Shirley, and Brad from accounting. And Shirley had an appointment at two.”

There was another name conspicuously missing from that list, but Joan knew better than to mention it, and directed her gaze to the cake, instead.

“I may take a sliver,” was all she said, an impulsive idea springing to mind. Clara’s eyes widened, but she didn’t protest.

By the time Joan had arrived in Lane’s office with a small slice of cake on a paper plate, along with the half-full packet of birthday candles that had been sitting next to the punchbowl, she had managed to avoid most of the prying eyes. Creative was pitching something today, so the floor was quiet, but Lane was gone, too – either in a meeting or at the vending machine, she assumed.

She moved two folders of campaign timelines and another pile of papers all on top of a nearby pile of invoices, so they didn’t get any food on them, and set the paper plate onto the cleared surface, careful not to disturb more on the desk than was necessary. She placed a plastic fork and thin napkin next to the plate.

Lane was always so fussy about other people knowing the date of his birthday. He never wanted to celebrate it. The only reason she’d found out about it was because – years ago, when they were still working out of the Pierre – Nigel had left him a message on the day, and she’d been the one to pick up the phone call.

Joan still thought it was important to show Lane that someone had remembered the occasion, even if it wasn’t technically until Saturday. She slid a single candle out of the cardboard package and placed it into the cake frosting, accidentally getting a little chocolate on the side of her finger as she did this.

Just as she had licked it off, and had picked up Lane’s silver lighter, trying to decide whether having an open flame on this desk in the middle of summer qualified as a fire hazard, the door opened.

“Oh, are you—” Lane took all of two steps into the room before stopping short, his eyes widening as he saw what she was doing.

Joan flicked the spark wheel, lowered the lighter, and lit the candle in one long movement. “I was going to leave you a note.”

He closed the door, but didn’t walk toward her, just stood in front of the nearby side table like he was rooted to the ground.

She lifted the plate from his desk in a careful motion, holding it with one hand and shielding the candle with the other as she walked slowly around the desk and over to him. Behind her cupped hand, the tiny flame danced alarmingly, making her slow down her steps.

By the time she’d actually reached him, several long seconds later, he was staring at her with an expression that suggested shock, his mouth open a little.

“Make a wish,” she said first, pulling her hand down and carefully away from the little flame as she held the plate up towards him.

He ducked his head to the right, as if he was embarrassed, then glanced back to her. “But—it’s not till this weekend.”

“Well,” Joan tilted her head to indicate that he should at least take the plate from her. “If you don’t want it…”

“No, I do,” he interrupted, reaching out for it. Their fingers brushed as he took the plate in one hand, and after a moment, she loosened her grip.

He blinked, staring down at the cake, and rubbed the fingers of his free hand against his mouth, like he might be overwhelmed. She couldn’t tell in the dim light.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling his hand away. “Erm. I’m still—”

“You want suggestions?” Joan asked softly.

He let out an amused breath, which made the flame sputter, and after they shared an alarmed look, he leaned forward and blew out the flame in earnest, eyes crinkling up in a smile after it went out.

A puff of acrid smoke disappeared into the air around them. Joan waved it away with one hand before patting him on the shoulder in a conciliatory gesture.

“Happy birthday.”

**

A few days later, she was reading over account files for a prospective client when a knock sounded on her door, and it turned out to be Lane on the other side.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” she said as he walked toward her desk, surprised but happy that he’d drop by unannounced.

“Oh, I just came over to bring you a few papers. Nothing terribly exciting.”

He set several folders down into her mail tray—was that for Chevy? —but winced as he pulled his arm back, like something about the movement was painful.

“Are you all right?” she asked immediately.

Lane shook his head. “No. I mean, well, yes. It’s nothing.”

She raised an eyebrow, already suspicious. “Lift your left shoulder.”

He glared at her over the top of his glasses. Neither of them moved, until finally, Lane let out a long breath. The second he tried to lift his shoulder, he let out a grunt that told her it must have felt as stiff as it looked.

Joan was already rising from her chair, making a shooing motion toward the sofa. He gamely made his way over there and sat down; she took a seat to his left.

“What happened?” she asked first.

“It’s really nothing,” he sighed, but at her stern look, backpedaled. “Well, it’s not much. Only a sprain, I think.”

“Turn around,” Joan gave him a mock-glare, making a circular turning motion with one finger. “I can help.”

He frowned at her like she was being very unreasonable, but turned around anyway, with a little _hmph_ of frustration.

She placed two flat-palmed hands against his shoulders. The seam of his tweed jacket crumpled slightly as she traced her thumb across the tense muscle connecting his shoulders and neck. At the gentle, continued press of her fingers into his upper back, Lane began to relax, and after a couple of minutes, he seemed content to sit slump-shouldered as she worked, even letting his head droop forward.

“I get this a lot, too,” she told him, huffing out a laugh. “Only mine is caused by taking one too many phone calls.”

He seemed confused. “What?”

“I balance the receiver between my ear and shoulder,” Joan reminded him. “Apparently, you’re not supposed to do that for twelve hours a day.”

He chuckled. She increased the pressure of her fingers.

“This too much?”

“No. ‘S nice.” She could feel the deep breath he let out after he spoke, and had to fight to keep the grin from her face.

As her thumb hit a small knot just under his shoulder blade, Lane let out a grunt, arching his back a little.

“How did you do this, anyway?” she asked, careful not to increase the pressure too much. The muscle was clearly tender. “What were you moving?”

He made a scoffing noise. “Oh, don’t ask.”

“Why? Is it embarrassing?” Joan teased, which made him snort, and mumble something she couldn’t hear.

“What?” she asked.

“I said I wasn’t moving anything,” he said, lifting his head up a little as he spoke.

She used the pad of her thumb to push into the sinew of his neck with slightly more force, just enough to make him sigh again. “Well, don’t tell me this is from the other month,” she said lightly, trying to make the idea into a kind of joke. “Or else I might go back on my diet.”

He made a kind of startled noise. “Don’t—don’t be silly.”

Joan continued to rub his shoulder, still choosing her words carefully. “Well, you were very vigorous. Things happened quickly.”

“Not _that_ quickly,” he said after a moment.

She snorted out a laugh; happy he could joke about that. “True.”

Lane was quiet for a few seconds.

“After _that_ —the shoulder ached for a couple of days, but that’s not how this happened.” He let out another sigh. “I was—well, there’s been a closet at the flat that’s been kind of a catch-all, you know, for several years. And I had a bit of time, last weekend, and so I thought that I might tidy it up a bit. There were numerous boxes, and a few other things that I wanted to rearrange, so I went to put one box on a high shelf, and then another, and then it… ended badly.”

Joan stopped her movements for a second, brow knitting down in concern. “Lane, if you blew out your shoulder, you should go to the doctor.”

“Oh, I didn’t _blow it out_ ,” he countered, like she was overreacting. “It’s—I don’t know what happened, but it ought to be all right again soon enough.”

“But if it’s been hurting you—” she began to protest, which he cut off with a raised hand, like he was pleading for peace.

“Joan, it’s all right. Really.” He lowered his hand, and twisted around to look at her over his left shoulder, giving her a half-smile as he leaned in towards her. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“It’s not trouble,” she told him, just as quietly. “If you want, I’ll keep going.”

He turned back around, but she thought she could still hear the smile in his voice as he talked. “Now, don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep. I may never leave your sofa again, if that’s the case.”

She actually giggled. “Well, you can try.”

“Yes, well, I’ve started, then.” He made his voice a little louder, like it was a formal announcement. “Thank you.”

God, he was funny when he wanted to be. On a sudden impulse – because she was happy and they were finally _talking_ about things and she just felt like the timing was right – she leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

As soon as she’d done it, she knew it had made him feel awkward, and inwardly cursed herself for being such an idiot, pressing her lips together and trying to pretend she couldn’t taste his hair pomade on her skin.

“Erm.” Lane had to clear his throat to speak, but when he did, it was like he was determined to sound calm. “You’ve—you kissed me.”

Joan could feel her face getting hot, and brushed her flat-palmed hands across his shoulders with a brisk noise, like that kiss was supposed to be the _piéce de resistánce_ of this little moment.

“I did,” she replied quickly, patting the center of his shoulders with one hand and then removing it altogether, deciding it would probably be best if she didn’t touch him. That might be tempting fate, circumstances considered.

“Right.” He still sounded like he was trying to keep his voice level.

“Just an impulse,” she told him with a shrug, although he couldn’t see it.

He turned to look at her now, a frown etched into his face, watching her over the top of his glasses like she had completely lost her mind.

“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” she huffed, feeling a twinge of anxiety in her throat as she said the words. “Honestly.”

“No, but, sorry.” He let out a breath, closing his eyes briefly, then re-opening them. “I—you wanted to—to kiss me?”

“Yes, Lane,” Joan said loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers, and sitting back onto her heels. “I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to make love. I’m—“ she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “I will be more prudent in future. Okay?”

“Well, no, just—hang on a minute.”

She pulled her hand away from her face to look at him. He was staring at her.

“I’ve embarrassed you,” he said slowly. “Joan, I didn’t mean to.”

Joan shook her head, trying to smile. “I think we just feel differently about this subject, that’s all. It’s perfectly fine. You shouldn’t be upset.”

“But I’m not upset.” He was still watching her very carefully, like he wanted to make sure she meant to say all of those words in that order. “I just—I don’t understand. We were only i-intimate because of the drinks. Were—weren’t we?”

The smile she tried to summon up didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wasn’t.”

He looked stunned, but rushed to cover it up. “Well, no, it wasn’t—I wasn’t drunk, certainly, a-and neither were you, but—” he seemed to steel his courage to say the next few words “—do you mean to say you would still have wanted—even if we hadn’t been—?”

“Lane, I hate counterfactuals.” She glanced left to briefly study the painting hanging behind her desk, resigned to saying this in the bluntest terms. “We had sex— _good_ sex. I came on to you, and I kissed you, and I—thought we could have something more, given our track record.” The laugh she let out was kind of tremulous. “It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

He grabbed for her hand, looking alarmed, and scooting closer to her on the sofa. “Well, no, I-I think it isn’t. It matters—very much.”

Joan glanced over at him, the smallest flicker of hope sparking to life in her chest. She pushed it down, trying to stay realistic. “Meaning what?”

Lane took her hand in both of his, his fingertips tracing across the top of her palm, mouth pursed like he was trying so hard to find the right words. “It’s—I just don’t—”

Her buzzer blared, and suddenly Clara’s voice filled the room. “Sorry, Joan. There’s a, uh, small emergency with one of the vendors, but Dawn’s not at her desk. Um. Can you help?”

Joan growled low in her throat, ready to go over to the intercom and give Clara an earful, but when she moved to pull her hand away, Lane didn’t let her go.

“Please,” he said quietly.

She gave him a pleading look, but stopped trying to pull her hand free. “I have to get up. They’ll keep calling me.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “But I don’t want there to be more misunderstandings. You mentioned the other time that we’ve—kissed.”

“Made out,” she corrected with an amused sniff.

“Right. Erm. Which time?”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to see if he was pulling her leg.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” he told her in a rush, tightening his grip on her hand. He looked flustered. “There have been—several.”

Joan decided to take pity on him, letting out a sigh. “Christmas party.”

The buzzer sounded, and Clara’s voice filled the office again. “Joan? Are you in there?”

She couldn’t tell what Lane was thinking. Two spots of pink had appeared high in his cheeks.

“Can I answer that?” she asked flatly.

He practically spoke over her. “What if things were different? Between us?”

Without warning, the door to Joan’s office slammed open; Clara’s knuckles barely made contact with the wood before she was inside, already talking.

“Sorry, Joan, I know you’re— _oh_ —”

“Clara!” Lane had yanked his hands away from Joan’s as soon as the door had opened, but not before Clara had seen _something_ , her blue eyes widening in horror and her mouth falling open until she looked like a colorful pregnant guppy. “A moment!”

“I—yes, of—”

“Out,” barked Joan, and out Clara went, yanking the door closed behind her – but shutting it on the other side with a slow, careful click, like she was afraid to draw too much attention. Joan could hear her heels tapping loudly against the tile as the secretary walked away.

Next to Joan, Lane was slumped over in his seat. He removed his glasses, and rubbed one hand over his eyes. He wasn’t looking at her.

“Erm. Would you mind if we, er, started over? Only I—” he let out a long breath “—I saw this conversation going very differently. In my mind.”

“Me too,” Joan said wryly, leaning back against the sofa with a snort. When Lane glanced at her this time, there was affection in his eyes, and the smiles that they shared were wide and open.

He leaned back beside her, and nudged her bicep with his elbow, making a little amused noise as their arms bumped into each other.

She started to laugh, covering her mouth with a hand. Oh, god, this is ridiculous. They’re worse than half the kids in this company.

“Come to dinner with me, hm?” Lane said after a second of silence, his voice softer but more confident this time. He was balanced against her a little. She tried not to let on how much she liked that. “We’ll have an evening together.”

Joan pulled her hand away from her face, her mouth twitching up into another smile. “If I say yes, can I kiss you again?”

He actually grinned. “I suppose that would be all right.”

She leaned forward, kissed him briefly, then pulled back, enjoying the content noise he made right after she’d done it.

“Okay,” she said.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this is so delayed, dear requestor! I got extremely stuck on this story (to the point where I made a non-MM-watching friend brainstorm about it with me in a pub one night.) I had a lot of fun trying to write a less-subtly aggressive Joan, so thankfully, this sacrifice was not in vain. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title taken from the lyrics to "[Body and Soul](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OFMkCeP6ok)," an old '30s jazz standard.


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